


A Mess

by Blank_Ideas



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: F/M, Lots of stuff in one i guess, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-24 11:12:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13809993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blank_Ideas/pseuds/Blank_Ideas
Summary: A large collection of some TGS dabbles I do.





	1. Chapter 1

It was bright, it was sunny and it was most certainly ordinary, just like any other day in the ring of the king with the birds chirping and swooping overhead of the magnificent tent that many called a home. Sweet tunes of the melodic chorus ripple over the crowds heads with a mountainous, awe-inspiring effect as it radiates with the song of those who have suffered but bound together in a world that they now know they belong in. Each movement rung with jovial intent, sweat dripped with vivid concentration and breathes came in hot, heavy, filled with the feather like weight of passion. Each voice arched over head, rivalling the speed and exhilaration of the acrobatics taking place and pounded against the brain like the heavy stomps of an elephant in time to a brilliant beat. This was the world of the circus. A place of wonder, amusement and show business. It was a place where families could come and see the greatest family of all perform with a ferocious heat like the breath of a dragon. This was a world where even a loner of rich and prestigious backgrounds like Philip Carlyle, could find a home, a family and a job that he could truly enjoy with a deep seeded feeling of compassion.

Compassion came like a flow of infinite currency here, love frequent and never fleeting, highlighted for all to see with the fluorescent lights illuminating it for all to see, Philip loved it.

Compassion came even from those you could assume would have none, who'd been hurt and savaged by days and nights in a society that didn't understand as they extended a hand to him in a flash of angelic light in his drunken stupor, Philip loved them.

Compassion came from him like a river running through the sacred springs, cold and yet alive with a hidden warmth, gushing down his spine and a pushing hot breathes out to prickle his flesh, Philip loved him.

~~~

Barnum’s large hand ran red down his warm skin, his deep eyes watching Philip humorously, wrinkling around the edges, as the younger male yelped, shivering at the bitter cold and glared contemptuously at the taller, crossing his arms over his chest and continuing to complain. That was a foul joke. And yet, he sort of loved him nonetheless, although he wasn't too sure if it were too strong a word… Ah yes, compassion, exactly to word for it.


	2. Winged Au.

Birds fly overhead, neat wings of patterned feathers splaying out for with, powering them onwards in soaring arches through the icy blue sky. Clouds faintly crawl across the stage of those same birds, like begrudgingly cattle across a field, the whipping wind acting as a swine herd, pushing them on while howling like the wolf that would easily snack on them in its own right.

Philip Carlyle sat underneath a tree, it's spread arms of dark oak making it a comfortable nook to simply read and relax in. Relaxing wasn't something the young man did often, split between work and family, his alcoholic tendencies seems to be the only thing that he really had going for him, and so to that he's surprised he isn't already at the bottom of a whiskey glass or throwing up the remains of his rushed breakfast in some gutter where the pungent scent of failure only makes him more queasy. Although he often reasons that he'll be there one day. He was already a disgrace, wasn't he? Clipped wings, clipped personality, clipped ability, clipped Philip. Clipped Philip. Brilliant. He exhales, turning another page to yet another boring story, the supposed inspiration to his current work, classics, always seemed so much more plainer, so much less interesting when he was the one reading it. Actually, Philip couldn't remember the last time he'd been fascinated with something. He droops at the thought. 

Minutes go by in the thick nestling of a trees embrace, an hour can flash in a drawn-out shakespearean soliloquy and even more so in terse fight of words and swords, this was meant to be exciting, inspiring but yet, it was dreary. Sad because he knew the ending, just like he knew his own, just as he'd read this book and so many, so so many, over and over again in his flightless stoop. He's numb so he should move, wings of deep navy struggling to even feel as he slowly pushes himself out the tree. Discarding the book as he knows he can always just by another after just writing another play, just another play. 

But what was that? A faint, tremulous sound of music, a beat so bright and illuminating that he found himself following it, up through the crowd and the stairs and onto, a thin wooden bench. He looks around, fascinated for once in the cold expanse of his heart as he feels it beat once again, flutter like a hummingbird's wings and soar with that dazzling voice. His eyes widen, his breath hitches and his world opens, so wide he couldn't see the end.

Maybe Philip didn't know his end after all.


	3. In which the author writes smut for the first time.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut ahead kiddos, look out.

They'd been arguing about whos turn it was too lead when Philip pinned him to the desk.

Hot, sweaty kisses trailing down the skin exposed by an open collar. Heat drips through contact, coiling up like a large snake ss it slithered through the veins. Blood felt thick, too heavy to run through his system, starving his tired brain of thoughts. To think, to move, to breath. All things that took too much effort, his body being way too sensitive to even call out in a moan of satisfaction as he shakes in anticipation. Philip’s finger tips are like electricity, slowly sliding down his flushed skin, pausing at the top of his adams apple and watching his swallow thirstily, eyes of the dangerous kind stare at him and observe, only serving to further Barnum’s arousal as he continued to quake, daring to place his hands on Philip’s delicate hips.

Subtly Philip’s finger teases as his teeth enclose around his throat, nipping roughly in a way Barnum simply list himself for.

Next thing Barnum knows is that he's flat on his back, chin tilted up in defiance or perhaps desire for the sloppy kisses and precarious nibbles that Philip leisurely litters across him. He's on fire, bathed in some sort of angelic light and forced into some sort heat that trailed down and built up within his abdomen. The fingers trail down, further and further, slowly entering the fire pit of his boxers, the cool fingers soothing as they brush up close to what Barnum desired to be touched most, he feels himself slowly getting lost in that cool touch as it darts from place to place, entangling itself in the pleasure pit and entrapping Barnum’s breath in his throat, forcing his satisfied yet wanting moans to hitch mid way and cause him to wince.

Straddling him, Philip stares down, smirking sickly at his older lover, the circus king's crown resting on his head having stolen it, along with a kiss, only a few sensual minutes ago. The world has been drowned out, and only that tempestuous smile and those seductive, long lashed eyes seem to make any sense to him. There is no sound except his escalating moans, no sight except Philip, no taste except his own desire and no touch except the ecstatic one of Philip’s cold skin. 

Philip leans down, lips grazing the shell of Barnum’s ear, “My turn.” he whispers darkly, slowly leaving Barnum and winking as he turns and struts out of the office, cane in hand.

Now what can Barnum do?

~~~

Slowly, Barnum exhales. What can he do? The room is quiet as if judging him rudely for the things he'd evidently done by the state of of his rustled brown hair and crumpled clothing, his bare chest glistened with sweat as he pants roughly, feeling like a dog in desire of his owner. And like a very naughty puppy indeed, his large warm hand slowly crawls down the trail of his abdomen, rough and quick to live like an adrenaline junkie, he tries to imagine the sheer sensation of Philip. That demanding grin, the cocky little brat. Barnum grits his teeth, a choked groan leaving his raw throat as his hand reaches down and rubs at the hard, wet spot beneath. He's quick and he's messy, experienced in only making a mess of things as his breath repeatedly hitches and he lids his eyes tightly, ignoring the loneliness and imagining only Philip.

Bare, naked Philip. Tender pale skin, going pink in all the perfect places. Thin legs, wrapping around his muscled waist. Balled up hands, small and delicate, only having just seen the hardships of life, a bit like his ass if Phineas had any say. The trembling boy, the whining, moaning man who always wanted more and shouting louder and sweeter than anyone else despite how much punishment you dealt. Brilliant Philip, quaking body, sprawled across the bed and only allowing for pleasure and energy to course through the veins. Arched back. Puzzling whine. Arousing eyes. That seductive smirk and personality, Barnum felt like a bug drawn to a flame, he'd die in a flame for Philip. Philip, to whom he was devoted.

Barnum grunts. Exhaling heavily as he feels the warm slick liquid coat his hand with hot burst of magma, staining his boxers stupidly and allowing Phineas to think straight.

But Barnum didn't know what to think, slowly sitting alone in his office, it was still quiet but only now could he concentrate enough to hear Philip’s magnificent voice rise like a phoenix over the chorus, he could imagine his dance and his smile and his touch. Barnum could imagine so many things that he knew of Philip, could only imagine what he wanted to do, could only long for his presence even as he cleaned up the residue that came as a result of Philip. He wanted to protect Philip, love him and hold him, pleasure him just as he wanted, he wanted to pamper and spoil the younger man, let him know that he was needed and wanted. Wanting Philip was all he could do though, wasn't it?

And what could Barnum do about that?


	4. Death pt1

His body lay prone, limp and lifeless in a pile of ash and dust. His face caked in smokey black ash, it darkened his moody features. His chest wouldn't rise, wouldn't fall.

The fire roared on in the background, consuming and overtaking everything he held dear, a curtain of flame blocking him from his friends and family, his tears making a river of hope, flowing down to Philip’s face, protesting against all the grime and the dirt, just as Philip would if he were awake… if he were awake.

~~~

But Philip hadn't been asleep, if he'd been knocked out by a failing support beam then perhaps he wouldn't have suffered, but those ferocious burns always told Barnum differently. He too had scars from that night and many after, but none of them imprinted on the back of his eyelids, none haunted him even as he blinked. Barnum exhales. His warm, dead breath, floating into the chilly air, condensation mocking him with an image of the smoke that blocked out even the brightest angel. He'd lost the circus, the troupe having left him to grief, Charity done with his insufferable nature and taking the girls with her, they were probably happy anyway… living it up, rich, being something that Barnum could never let them. But the worst loss in his heart, the worst thing he'd ever experienced, worse than his father's death and worse than his abandonment and complete isolation of the world, Philip died.  
Lying in his arms, breaths so light and tapering, he felt so damn guilty for taking one last, warm kiss. It was his fault. He should have never left, never came, never convince Philip to join where the man simply didn't belong what with Barnum’s corrupt and dangerous influence. Because Philip was an angel and Barnum damn sure hopes that he was in heaven now.

There are no sunny days anymore, purple bruises and grey mornings, long evenings and deathly nights all spent at the bottom of a glass. He didn't see anymore. There is no songs to sing, he's dull and quiet, occasionally grumbling, ordering another drink, or shouting in some bar crawl or fight. He didn't hear anymore. In fact he didn't do a lot anymore, and he hated that, and he hated himself.

Dropping the cigarette on the floor, stomping it out and clamoring unsteadily on the balcony ledge, he wavers, thinking of Philip’s bright smile, his tear glistening ears and heart wrenching voice. He thinks of his girls and his troupe and everything he ever had, he considers his mistakes and inhales. Lidding his eyes for one more, one final image of the man who took his heart, his soul, his body and everything with it.

What he'd do for Philip.

His foot moves, he feels himself move forward, and…

“Wait!-”

~~~

Phineas plummets, world crashing up past him, rising like the flames that consumes his home, rising like a crowd who wanted to see the tightrope act fall and so the act did, dropping his plates and his desires with it, letting it hit the floor and reverberate with the sound of smashing as the plates, dreams and hope split and parted into thousands of pieces. The world goes monochrome, blocky and hard to see, he feels 2D as though he's flattened and cartoonified for some audience’s amusement. He turns, spinning round and round, flipping in the air, feeling his old coat flap like the wings of a forgotten nightingale, his voice soaring with a cry. His hair is a mess with the wind, his body loose and like a ragdoll, muffled screaming voice blending the howls as everything screamed past and he continued to fall, deep into the rabbit hole. The ringmaster stares, eyelids fluttering with the strain of wind resistance and yet his brown, deep eyes, glare. Glare at the world. Glare at the society. Glare at himself. He wishes he could have done more, also wishing that he could've been happy with what he had, but mostly, he wished he'd had another chance.

He hits the floor, an almighty crack running through him, vibrations shattering his spine, his blood jumping and skin snapping, his voice continues to cry. Agony tears through him. Tears flow, bargaining with blood for density and strength as he sprawls broken on the city sidewalk. Life is gone from his eyes, he's glassy and empty, innards torn of all he had.

Phineas Taylor Barnum is dead.

~~~

He awakes, as though it were any other morning, seeing a ceiling he remembers but isn't quite familiar with, having a brain that's foggy but not hungover for once. Barnum groans, slowly sitting and grunting as his neck cracks, phantom pain runs through him for a second and he winces, balling his fists and screwing his eyes up.

“Phineas? What are you doing up? It's early.” that smooth, sweet voice, Charity? He looks to his side, eyes wide and face stunned. “What's wrong sweetie?” she seems worried, she hadn't she’d left him.

Phineas didn't reply, he wasn't sure he could even begin to formulate a sentence describing it. Was it all lucid dream? A trick of the mind? A terrible nightmare? Perhaps his wish had been granted. 

Maybe a higher power had been listening.

The clock is grey, room simple and clean, perfectly fine and delicate and yet it's a prison cell for Philip. He leans his bed, young form sprawled across reading some book about a zombie of a man. The man was strong, committing suicide but coming back all for the sake of someone he loves. Philip has been here a while, his parents having sent him upstairs for up staging a dinner party guest by accident, he hadn't meant too and yet now, it was just him, the lamp and his book. His book. He was in charge and no one could stop him and so he was happy to keep on writing, filling in all the gorey details as children are often fascinated with. The zombie man? The angel? The demon? The sinful saint? So many names to simply describe his new and fantastical character. A circus owner names Barnum. Philip loved him, was thoroughly fascinated by the story as it warped around him.

Philip hopes that one day someone will feel the same about him.

~~~

Barnum stands up, quickly getting out of bed and looking down at his clothing, brow furrowed as he examined it and tried to twist his mind around it all. Was he dead? He wasn't sure.

“Just… just a bad dream, that's all.” He nods towards Charity, biting his lower lip as she examines him with her eyes. Those beautiful, darling eyes. Simply he nods, letting him the room and not resisting the pull of sleep again as she lids her eyes and falls asleep. Barnum wished he could, simply walking to get out some new clothes, his mind unfocused and lucid as he saintly picks out clothing that he was sure he'd binned or burnt long since he'd last worn them. He examined a navy blue waistcoat, hadn't he worn that to meet Philip? Philip. Was he alive now? Was it all a sick dream or was this a twisted afterlife? He wouldn't say it wasn't, he snorted himself, he was far from a saint.

He dresses, casually looking in the mirror and jumping out of his skin metaphorically. A destroyed mass of flesh for a face, raw sinews dripping blood, eyes wide and alarmed with no lids to over them, he looked at his hands, burnt flesh, dark and raw and spilling something, dark scarring covering him wherever he looked. His scalp hanging by a thread. His breath hitched, terrified, was this an hallucination? He touched his face, it felt smooth… impossible. It should rough, painful to the touch and yet it didn't hurt, it wasn't agonising, it was normal.

What the fuck?


	5. In which I kill Barnum again

The smell of burnt flesh, charcoal skin with the scent of thick greasy fat creating a musty fume within the ash and choking smoke. Grime crackled along the stone with an acidic touch, windows cracking and shattering in their very frames. With the roof promptly collapsing in on itself. Echoing screams of pain wrack the ribs, radiating around the entire city, agony leaking and dripping like grease from a saturated patty. The satanic barbecue continues to roar and Phineas watches it all. His tears luminescent with the fire light as he crinkles to the ground, knees falling out from beneath him as he sobs in silence. The feeling of ghostly hands crawl down him, snatching at his clothing and tugging as he continues to cry, goosebumps pickling at the hairs on his skin as he falls forward, fists pounding at the stone floor, the beat to the saddest piece of music that could ever occur. Horrific. Terrifying. Heart breaking. It radiates continuously, pounding around and coming out of the old, ruined circus in waves upon waves, like a sea of blood in a rough and cruel decision of ending the human race, no ark to be found. And Barnum drowned in it.

~~~

Barnum stands, alone by the window, his weary worn eyes watching over the darkness as the sun set and moon rose over in a sad arrangement of stars on a navy background, a clear stage for the most tragic of dramas. The occasional cloud passes. Barnum turns away, taking a thick gulp of the burning liquid, letting it scald down his throat as he slowly lowers the crystalline glass harshly on the dirty white surface and draws the curtains shut, roughly, on the outside world. The world makes him think too much, Lettie always commented on it, just little snippets, little comments that made him laugh and then Anne would swoop by and the two giggling gals would be gone again, often to return but once…

~~~

It was a faint summer's day, the sky a bright baby blue and hanging daintily of the mysterious labyrinth of the city, it's clouds were simply white and fluffy, radiating a cheerful smile by which Barnum would always try to match. He stood outside, broad hands in hips and beaming face tilted up towards the would with a happy go lucky appearance glimmering in his holden brown eyes, like a mysterious, silver fish that always managed to avoid those who starred directly into the pond. With the usual smile lines appearing around his eyes, he'd exhaled and taken in that deep breath of city air, feeling the beat of the street crawl through his feet. 

“Try as you might Phineas, you'll never be as bright as the sun.” that smooth, honey of a voice rang out, soft hand clamping up on his shoulder and snipping away any thoughts he'd been trying to groom on the ridiculous mess of a bonsai tree he had for a mind. He laughed shaking his head.

The fire had been as bright as the sun.

~~~

He exhales tiredly, looking over the scrappy apartment. Broken boards and little furniture, a singular chair beneath the high support beam, a candle melting on the desk by a note before it and he spends only a second to look over the brief note a final time. A bitter frown remains on his soft lips, hot breath and musk combing into a murky mix of alcohol and sweat, his calloused hands slowly reaching up as he stumbled slowly towards the noose. He bites his lower lip, finally, six months of terror and pain, six months of echoing screams and six months spent in a waste of a alcoholic daze. He fumbles, large feet unmotivated as he stands, letting the rope hang loose around his bobbing adam's apple, like a toe to his final business meeting … it remind him off a time before.

~~~

Philip would often stand in front of him, on lazy mornings where both would be late for work if they didn't hurry up, he'd stand in front of him like the perfect portrait, and he'd smile, laugh lovingly and shake his head. He'd dismiss the crazy ideas but always nurture the truly great ones, he too was eccentric. Phineas huffed, fiddling with the buckle of his leather belt, hair a mess and face a little bit stressed as he considered the battle plan of today, it certainly did feel like a war. What with Bennett breathing down his back and the papers smashing his attempts at boosting others, it felt like every jab he fought with was met with a cross. A grappling game of the matched kind. He felt smooth, soft lips lift, tilting to his and pressing lightly, reminding him of the others heated presence.

“Phin, calm down, you're so tense.” he heard the other mutter with a soft sigh, small delicate hands reaching up and slowly tying Phineas’ tie, being careful and light in its efforts.

“That's rather hypocritical coming from you.”

If only the fire hadn't been so care free.

~~~

The fire hadn't been light or delicate, it'd been rough and harsh, shaking Phineas like a doll, like a noose around his neck, roughly throwing him from side to side as the smoke clung to his throat and forced him to squirm for breath. He clawed at his skin, expecting to find Philip’s hands to calm and steady him, only finding raw flesh, engraved with marks and scars of a rough time. Grief and mourning still wracked him, clawing throw him like some malevolent beast and forcing the oxygen from his lungs. Hot tears spilled down his stubbles cheeks.

The noose rested still at a slight slant, or at least until the greatest showman closed his eyelids and stepped forward.


End file.
